“I need your help with the computer,” Mom announced, not an unusual daily routine.  But this time she seemed unusually distressed.  Peeking into the study, I found the relic desktop tipped onto its face, and mouse innards splayed across the old oak desk.  What happened here? I asked.  “The mouse stopped working, so I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t, so I turned the computer off and unplugged the mouse chord.”  Unsure of the relevance or wisdom of each of these procedures, I examined the mouse parts and sighed.  Mom never tries to fix anything, especially not computers—I’m her repairman—so what had compelled her to attempt this repair job escaped me.  But I had no patience that day for attempting to piece back together something I had not taken apart.  The mouse was thoroughly disemboweled, and I could not immediately see how the pieces fit together.  Maybe I just wasn’t in a fix-it mood.  The easier route, for me, on that day, was a quick drive to the DI thrift store to purchase a new old mouse for $3.00.  At home, I sanitized it with 99% germ-kill wipes, plugged the chord into the USB port, and righted and turned on the computer.  The disassembled mouse parts went into the trash with the ragged teddy bears.  “You’re in business,” I declared, to her relieved sighs.